am i just in heaven or las vegas

“sorry for the intrusion,” you say sheepishly. it’s the first thing you’ve said since he picked you up from the bar. at least you can say you feel some shame, especially after the events of tonight. 

suguru shoots a look at you, quick but piercing. “you know i don’t mind.”

“i know but still…” you’re still pressed to the doorway, fiddling with the end of your scarf. maybe your apology shouldn’t be a surprise at all, considering how being with suguru always made you feel some innate sense of shame. like you were somewhere you didn’t belong—a messy stain smeared on his picture perfect life. a light leak, streaked and splotched on a film strip.

it’s why you had ended things with him in the first place, but maybe you should have remembered that before you’d called him in a drunken stupor asking him to pick you up.

(“suguru.” the line goes quiet. the leftover lime tastes stale in your mouth. “do you remember me?”)

he calls your name, light and soothing. you turn to him, ready to bite the bullet and pay the inflated price for an uber ride home, and your stomach drops at the sight: suguru, kneeling before you at the edge of the genkan, hand splayed out and offering. 

“come on,” he continues, a glint in his eye. knowing, teasing, a little smug, as if to say, you remember what to do, don’t you? “just like old times, right?”

your breath comes out quick, cheeks flushed and burning, but you step forward one step, then two. your hands brace against his shoulders as he reaches for your right foot, gently prying your heel off. like pavlov’s dog, mouth watering at the ringing of a bell.

suguru looks a little different now—older, sharper, more mature. his hair has gotten longer, opting to leave it down today rather than the bun he liked to wear throughout university. though, you’re sure it’s only because you’d caught him at an inopportune time. who would be prepared to get a call from their ex at 1am on a thursday night?

guilt creeps into your stomach again at the thought. you try to scan his face for any weariness in his eyes, the way he blinks slow when he’s running off too-little hours of sleep. there are things you still know about him, after all, things you’re sure haven’t changed even in half a decade. his eyes are still the same color, dark in the way they swallow light. his ears are still pierced with the same black studs, a little bigger than they used to be. you’re starting to take inventory in the silence, you realize. marking things you remember, jotting down the new changes he’d made without you.

suguru looks up at you then, left foot in hand, newly bare, and you realize he’s taking inventory of you too. he rubs a thumb absentmindedly against the ball of your foot, right where it always aches at the end of the day.

“so you still wear these?” he asks, looking down at the black pump in his other hand. “you always get blisters from them.”

and you did, from wearing them two nights ago—they’re still healing. you’d taped bandaids over them in the meantime, covered with extra padding by the stockings you wore tonight. almost enough for you to forget that the wound existed, just enough for you to ignore it ever happened.

“oh,” suguru says, brushing over the silhouette of the bandaid on your pinky toe. he stops where the plaster begins, then ghosts over where it ends. “i see.”

you pull your foot away from him, planting it on the cold tile and standing a little straighter. suguru looks up at you, knowingly. you resist the urge to counter with a lame excuse. 

(“i don’t understand why you always wear these,” suguru gently scolds, squeezing the neosporin over the blossoming blister. “you just get hurt.”)

you never knew how to tell him you always endured it because of the way it made you look: prim, perfect, polished. even if it was superficial and stupid, it’s why you never minded carrying around a pack of bandaids around, even if you couldn’t walk right for a few days after. but you know he’d look at you in a way that would make you feel ashamed for thinking such a thing, so you’ve kept it balled up and tucked away inside of you until now.

you fight off the embarrassment that floods into your chest, playing with the edge of your skirt. “i…”

“come inside,” suguru says, standing up. he takes the ends of your scarf between his hands, unfurling the knot. unwinding-winding-winding. “it’s warmer in here.”

gnawing on your inner cheek, you look between him and the heels he’d just taken off of you, tucked neatly against the wall next to his pair of black loafers. you think about reaching down and putting them on again, but the coldness of the tile makes the blisters on your feet feel even more tender than usual, even through the layers of your socks and the bandaids in between. your resolve for appearances always did seem to waver, whenever suguru was concerned.

you take a deep breath. you follow him inside.

“water?” he offers. a courtesy—he would give you a glass even if you said no. you spare the pretense for both of your sakes.

“please, thank you.”

suguru motions to the couch for you to sit, grabbing a glass from the cupboard. you nestle yourself into the far edge of the couch, pressed against the armrest, and you take the moment he’s looking away to take a visual tour of the apartment. his one bed wasn’t anything extravagant and certainly a far cry from anything someone like satoru would choose for residence, but it was cozy. neat, but comfortable.

he joins you soon after, handing the water to you silently. you sip on it awkwardly, glancing over at him as he sits on the opposite end of the couch.

“you wanna change?” suguru asks, breaking the silence. “i have some old shirts you might be able to—”

“no!” you jump, surprised at your own outburst. “no, that’s fine i’ll just… it’s fine.”

suguru tilts his head at you, something unreadable in his eyes. you swallow the embarrassment down, pressing yourself closer into the couch cushion. it was bad enough, being back here like this; you’re not sure you could stomach borrowing his clothes and smelling his fabric softener and sleeping in his home like nothing had changed, and then wake up the next morning and remember that everything has.

“how’s your boyfriend?” he asks suddenly. “takeru… takashi…?”

“takezo,” you correct, with more heat than you intended. and then you stiffen, your head snapping to his. “how’d you know about him?”

suguru looks at you wryly. “if you remember, we still share the same friends. shoko brought it up a couple months ago, when everyone was over for a drink.”

did you ask about me? the question buoys to the front of your mind before you push it back down. did you want him to, even after the way things ended?

“he’s good,” you say eventually. the thought of him makes you remember the tequila barely settled into your stomach, and you quickly change the topic. “how’s your girlfriend?”

“girlfriend?” suguru echoes, amused. “i think we both know shoko would have told you if i had one, no?”

“that’s not…” you begin, but it fades away lamely at the look suguru gives you. shoko ieiri—26, first year resident, professional double agent. an expected title, but a betrayal nonetheless. you make a note to chew her out next time you see her. “you say that like i’m keeping tabs on you.”

suguru leans back and laughs where his smile reaches his eyes, and your stomach swoops. “i wouldn’t mind if you were.”

“i’m not!” the reply comes too quick, too insistent. shoko had given up the information freely, though it was mostly the loose lips she would get after her third round of beer and reading between the lines, but the thought appears again, more incessant than the last time. you try to imagine yourself being brave enough to ask it. is it because you were keeping tabs on me too? did you still care enough to wonder how i was, what i was doing?

any scenario you can imagine of you asking that ends with you wading into waters too deep for you to swim out of. you fidget with the edge of your skirt, pulling it as far down as you can. suguru is watching you, like he’s always done; his gaze has always had a knife’s edge to them, taking you in and flaying you bare. you never got used to being picked apart so carefully—sometimes you wondered if he could read your mind, if he looked hard enough. you had decided to run away before he could prove that theory.

“are you sure you don’t want spare clothes?” he asks again, gesturing to your sweater and skirt. “i’m not sure if what you have right now will be the most comfortable.”

this again? “what are you doing?”

“i’m being a good host,” he states plainly, raising a brow. “trying to, at least. what are you doing?”

“what do you mean?” you huff. “i—”

your name always sounded soft off suguru’s tongue. like each syllable had been shaped and smoothed over delicately before he spoke it into the air. like there was no other way to be with you but gentle. “what were you doing tonight, at that bar?”

“what, i can’t go drinking now?”

“you never drink alone.”

“since when?”

“since i’ve known you.”

“a lot has changed since you’ve known me.”

there’s a brief pause, and his eyes flicker, like you’d said something wrong—something hurtful. you straighten your back, petulant and shoving down the guilt. you didn’t say anything untrue.

“you said,” suguru starts, patient and knowing. “it makes you feel lonely. and you hate feeling lonely.” the look in his eyes is gone as fast as it came. “why else would you call me?”

“i never…” your heart pounds in your ears. “that’s not…” and you give up. if you had some more fight in you, maybe you could try arguing for a few seconds longer, but the night has grown weary on your bones, and suguru has always had a way of making you feel like a lone leaf, stripped bare and blowing in the autumn wind. “okay. fine.” 

you wiggle your toes trying to get some feeling back inside them, still cold and stiff from their nightlong bout outside. “i got dumped.”

suguru blinks—at least, you think he does. you push down enough shame to drag your gaze from the floor to see him staring back at you with an unreadable expression. “you?”

your mouth flattens into a line. “yes, me. are you making fun of me?”

“of course not,” he says, and you know he means it. “what happened?”

“he said i was too boring. too plain.” the words feel hollow, ping-ponging around in your head. “he found someone else.”

the rest is unsaid, but by the way suguru shifts straighter in his seat and gets a stony look in his eye, he can hear it without the humiliation of you saying it out loud. he cheated on me, and i knew, and i let him, because she was tall and beautiful and perfect and everything i wasn’t.

she was a perfect fit for takezo, who just wanted something pretty and amiable to hang off his arm. you had thought you were good at that role too, being quiet and obedient and doing whatever he had wanted from you, but you suppose it wasn’t good enough to make him want to stay. sometimes you wondered what it was you lacked, what it was you could do better—but it was all pointless in the end. this was what you were best suited for, after all, this half-hearted display of affection that you had grown comfortable with.

that was the problem with suguru. he had given everything to you so easily and openly that you were always waiting to see what the catch was—waiting to see when he would see there was nothing more to you than what was in front of him, when he would get tired of the sight and leave. you think someone like takezo’s new girlfriend would have suited suguru too; she would have fit in perfectly in this tidy, neat apartment like it was her own. she wouldn’t have looked like a stain he would have to scrub out.

but then you think of the night you had broken it off. the way he had looked at you, the way he had let you have your way so easily.

(why? / i’m tired of this, suguru. of you. /

a lie. a funhouse mirror, warped and twisted. the only time you lie to him—the only time he lets you get away with it. your act of bravery. your act of cowardice.)

“you were right,” you say softly. that’s the funny thing, wasn’t he always? “i called you cause i was lonely. and i…” you swallow hard. “i didn’t know who else to call.”

suguru pauses. and then, simply, “you still have my number.”

was that a normal thing people do? delete their exes’ numbers? you’re not quite sure. suguru was the first and only ex that ever mattered. “shoko…” you say lamely, and the bad excuse is as good as an admission of guilt.

suguru has inched closer while you weren’t looking, fingers encroaching on the edge of your couch cushion. closer—the fabric rustles—closer—the armrest meets the small of your back, your spine following its curve.

the light halos around his frame, his silhouette warm and features dark as he looms over you. his arm plants itself by your head, his other hand resting all too familiar on your thigh. there’s an endlessness to his eyes, like if you stare into them for too long he’ll swallow you whole. you wonder if this is what hunger looks like.

“you missed me.” a statement, a fact, something you can’t deny any longer. (like this: you never drink alone; you get lonely when you’re drunk; you still have his number; you missed him.) “i missed you,” he adds. another truth. and then he amends, “i miss you. every second of every day.” he leans into the crook of your neck, breathing you in. “even now, with you in front of me.”

“i—”

“i treated you well, didn’t i?” his knee shifts forward, electric as it nudges its way between your thighs. “no one can treat you as well as i can, especially those assholes you keep calling boyfriends.”

“you treat me too well.” you squeeze your eyes shut, his shirt grasped tightly between your fingers. push him away—pull him in closer—yell at him—drag his scent into your lungs—you miss him you misshimyoumisshim. “i don’t know how—i’ve never known how to repay you.”

“repay me?” suguru laughs, amber eyes turning molten honey. his thumb rubs circles into the side of your waist. “what is there to repay? i’ve only just ever wanted you.”

your gut twists, gripping his shirt tighter. “it’s because you’re always like this that you make things so difficult!”

“why would i make things difficult?” he asks, his thumb slipping beneath the hem of your sweater. “my job is to make everything in your life easier for you, don’t you remember?”

you’re a fraying ball of yarn, caught in his freshly sharpened claws. heat pools in your tummy, resisting the urge to whine as his palm splays flat against your stomach. his hand is warm. suguru always ran cold, unless he was with you. you remember this too.

and really, memory was the crux of the issue wasn’t it? you remembered his number, you remembered his habits, you remember everything clearly enough to know that nothing has truly changed, at least, not the things that truly mattered. there was you, and there was suguru, and still, after all this time, suguru is the only one who has loved you right. and, still, the only you that has ever existed has only ever loved suguru.

his shirt loosens in your fingertips. your hands absentmindedly smooth over the wrinkles, drifting up to cup his face in your palms. suguru’s eyes widen, body stilling. your legs shift ever so slightly. “you’re right.” you can barely hear yourself. “you did make things easier. you always did.”

your eyes scan over his face, taking everything in. his hair tickles your face, soft and gentle. there’s stubble starting to grow on his jaw that you know he’ll shave off first thing tomorrow morning. you can already smell the aftershave. the offer is open in the air, his weight heavy against your body. all you have to do is say yes, you know this much.

(your act of cowardice / your act of bravery.)

you pull him in and you close your eyes. part your lips. you feel a warmth press against your forehead, your hair brushed away from your face, and your eyes open in surprise. suguru ghosts a thumb over your lips, eyes flickering over them twice before he sighs. the weight disappears from your body, and you feel degrees cooler than you were moments ago. you lie there, watching him fix your clothes before he smiles, clean and neat and polished.

“it’s late,” suguru says. “i’ll leave you the spare clothes on the bed, okay? shower’s open if you want to use it.”

you blink at him. “wait, i—”

suguru reaches for his phone on the table, tapping the screen absently while he adds on, “and i’ll sleep on the couch tonight, so if you need anything just ask—”

“suguru,” you blurt, your hand shooting out to grab the sleeve of his shirt. he pauses, turning back to you. suguru always did this to you, made you lose any sense of rationality you had in you. but then again, he’d always said that he was happy to do all your hard thinking for you, too. “i… are we going to…”

suguru smiles, walking closer until you can smell the leftover cologne on his clothes again. he puts a soft hand on your head, tilting it for you to look up at him. “it’s late,” suguru repeats. “we’ll talk about this in the morning, when you’re fully sober.”

you press your lips into a line. “i am—”

“tomorrow,” he says again. “i want you to remember this right.”

this, he says. everything, he means. the defeat is loud enough for you to keep quiet.

and then, gently, he cups your face and looks at you—like clear glass, like an open doorway. “you know,” he says, something in his smile like relief and familiarity and— (love). “you finally said my name, just now.”

suguru, suguru, suguru. it had made a home in your head for years now, stuck being thought and repeated in your mind all this time. you hadn’t realized you’d missed saying it too.